


I Spend My Money On The Regular Miracles

by LayALioness



Series: Is This Your Starring Role (or just your cameo?) [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 20:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: The pictures are from that morning, of him and Clarke going into the diner, and a few of them grinning over their food, and then one that’s taken from the side during the goodbye kiss, so it looks a lot less platonic than it was. They look like they woke up together and got breakfast after a late night, which, to be fair, is exactly what happened. He wishes pap photos came with more context.“We passed out at Monty and Jasper’s after the party,” he explains, reaching for his own phone, because it’s weird that Monroe hasn’t called him about the pictures yet. She should be having a panic attack right about now.Apparently last-night Bellamy had the foresight to turn his phone on silent, because when he unlocks his screen, the whole thing lights up like a Christmas show, with no less than twelve missed calls from Monroe before she just started shooting rapid fire text messages like a digital AK-47, keeping time with her pulse.The last few just say DEFCON ONE over and over, with pictures of a Kermit puppet that somebody set on fire.





	I Spend My Money On The Regular Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just an excuse for me to write Bellamy as Dick Grayson, Raven as Batgirl, and Clarke as Power Girl. It was supposed to be like, a third of this length, but got a little out of control as usual. I'm not sorry.
> 
> Title from Harlem by New Politics

Bellamy wakes to his phone vibrating half-under his cheek, where he’d flopped down on the mattress after he fell asleep reading again. He squints at the screen, flashing UNKNOWN NUMBER at him, and hopes his sister didn’t write his phone number in the bathroom stall of some dive bar, again.

“M’ello?”

“Bellamy? Did I wake you? It’s only like twelve o’clock.”

Bellamy frowns, not recognizing the voice right away. It’s a girl, calling him by his first name, but that doesn’t mean much. He’s come to learn that most people consider themselves to be on first-name bases with celebrities, even if they’ve never spoken. “I have a four AM call time,” he says, a little defensive in spite of himself. “Who is this?”

If he was more awake, he’d be a little more concerned. It could be some journalist who bribed Murphy for his personal number, or an extra he hooked up with a few weeks ago. But as it is, he’s running on less than two hours of sleep and no coffee, and he just wants the call to be over so he can go back to bed.

“Wow, forget about me already? Guess that spin-off really did go to your head.”

Now that he’s awake enough to actually comprehend shit like tone of voice, Bellamy sits up and reaches for the glasses on his nightstand. “Clarke?”

She hums, and her voice is lower over the phone than it is in real life, but otherwise the same. He hasn’t talked to her since--god, when? The crossover episode last season. She made fun of his Nightwing hair, tugging at the streak of white. 

They’ve seen each other a few times since then of course; they’re both in DC, and often end up at the same award shows and wrap parties. They met on the first season of  _ Wayne Manor _ , back when everyone was sure they’d be cancelled before the second year. They didn’t get along at first--Clarke is the daughter of two Hollywood moguls, a total A-list star in the making, and Bellamy wasn’t shy about letting her know that he wasn’t a fan of nepotism. And Clarke was a control-freak, irritated by his near-constant improvisation. The fact that they actually worked really  _ well _ off each other only made it that much more annoying, even though they didn’t share many scenes. 

By the time Bellamy realized Clarke was actually a pretty hard worker, and Clarke realized Bellamy actually cared about his job, he was shipped off to the set of  _ Nightwing _ . Clarke congratulated him, they made a truce, and that was that. These days they generally just nod to each other, maybe wave a little, and then stick to their separate parts of the DC Universe. They definitely aren’t  _ friends _ . They’re barely even colleagues anymore.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, because there’s really only one reason to call a non-friend in the middle of the night. Okay--there are two reasons, but he highly doubts Clarke Griffin is the booty call type, so Bellamy isn’t going to think about the second option. “How’d you get my number?”

Clarke snorts, which he definitely does not find endearing. “Your sister.”

_ Ah _ . He did assume, at first, that this would be Octavia’s fault and in a roundabout way he was right. Typical. Bellamy got her the job as a stuntwoman for DC in the first place, and this is how she repays him. By giving his phone number to his prior on-set nemesis. 

Now his on-set nemesis is Echo, a different and, in his decidedly unbiased opinion,  _ worse _ stuntwoman. And while his weird sort-of-feud with Clarke had been at the very least entertaining, his  _ whatever _ he has with Echo is just uncomfortable and maybe even qualifies for sexual harassment at this point. He kind of wants to contact HR about it, but he also doesn’t want to  _ lose _ , and filing for a restraining order definitely counts as losing.

It’s possible he’s overly competitive. Octavia complains about it a lot, but Octavia’s even  _ more _ competitive, so it’s not like she can talk. He blames it on the zodiac; he’s a leo.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, and there’s something weird about her voice that puts him on alert instantly. “Octavia said you’d come pick us up.”

He’s already tugging on a shirt, snatched up off the floor, and it’s inside out and he gets his elbow caught because he’s still holding the phone up, but all he can think is  _ his baby sister is in trouble _ , so yeah, he’s out the door in record time. “Where are you?”

“The bathroom of some seedy club,” she says, only a little teasing around the edges, which seems like a good sign. She wouldn’t be joking if she was actually scared. Clarke’s, like, one of the most serious people he knows. More serious than  _ him _ , and that’s saying something. 

“ _ Which _ seedy club?” Bellamy asks, because this is LA, seriously. She’s gonna have to be more specific. “Are you in a gang territory? Where are the cabs?”

He remembers oddly specific, little things about Clarke Griffin. Like how she ate the skin off of green grapes, before popping the rest into her mouth, or how she always stuck her tongue out when she got a line wrong, or how she used to bite her lip when she was trying to think of what to say.

That’s what he pictures now; her biting her lip in some greasy, stained bathroom while she comes up with a response. 

“I know I’m not, like,  _ Dick Grayson _ -famous,” she starts, and he rolls his eyes, taking a left onto the freeway. “But a few of us came to the club and I know there are some paps outside. Plus I can’t carry your sister.”

Bellamy feels his blood pressure spike up to a thousand. “Is she  _ dead _ ?”

She laughs, which does lower his blood pressure, but not by much. “No, she’s trying--and failing--to braid my hair. But I’m worried that if I let her out, she’ll pick a fight with the bouncer _ s _ . As in plural.”

“Yeah, that sounds like her. Hang on I’m gonna swing around the back so we can make a quick getaway.”

“Wow, you actually sound like you know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah well before I was an actor, I used to rob banks.”

“That sounds likely.”

The club isn’t actually that seedy at all, but Clarke is an uptown girl so he lets it go and heads straight to the unisex bathroom at the end of the building and knocks  _ shave and a haircut _ on the door. 

From the other side, he hears Octavia call  _ Two bits! _ before the door swings open and he finds Clarke smiling up at him apologetically. 

Bellamy hadn’t  _ forgotten _ that Clarke Griffin is beautiful; it’s just, after months of not seeing her, he stopped thinking about it. But now here she is, in some strappy black top that makes her boobs look  _ amazing _ , and glittery eyeshadow that make her eyes look bluer than he ever thought possible and suddenly the fact that she’s gorgeous is hard to ignore.

Plus she’s apparently spent the better part of the night taking care of his drunk sister, and that goes a long way for him.

Clarke’s smile shifts into a smirk, dark red lipstick that he wants to ruin. “They really do a lot of magic with camera angles on your show, huh? I started thinking you must have gone through a growth spurt after you left  _ Manor _ .” 

“I’m still taller than you and that’s what matters,” Bellamy points out, because he’s fucking mature. “Is Octavia still alive?”

“No, she died in the fifteen seconds it took you to walk here from the parking lot.” Clarke rolls her eyes but shoulders the door open fully, so he can walk inside.

Octavia is there, as promised, sprawled out on the freckled linoleum and glaring up at the ceiling like she thinks the water stains are talking shit about her. 

“Hey, boozy,” Bellamy grins, crouching down beside her. Octavia shifts her glare to him.

“I have a crush,” she says miserably, and his grin widens. Octavia  _ hates _ crushes, and she gets all bent out of shape about them, like she wants to bareknuckle brawl her emotions. When he was younger and had recurring nightmares about her running off to Vegas with some motocross rider who unironically called himself “The Knife,” it used to stress Bellamy out, but now it’s just hilarious.

“He’s  _ nice _ ,” O whines, and that actually is a little surprising. Octavia tends to go for guys who wear dog collars with metal spikes and facial piercings and fancy themselves the Byronic hero in some made-for-tv flick (see: The Knife). Definitely not  _ nice _ guys. Maybe this is a sign she’s maturing.

“Crushes suck,” he commiserates, and she lets him pick her up princess-style, not even putting up a fight, just flopping her head against his shoulder.

“Clarke’s girlfriend was supposed to be our ride,” Octavia says glumly, still in  _ feelings are hard and everything is awful _ mode. “But she ditched, so I had her call you. Sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all, but alcohol makes her weirdly docile, after the initial ragegasm from the first rounds of shots. 

Bellamy glances over at Clarke as they creep around the rear of the club, bass muffled but still vibrating his teeth. It’s hard to tell in the shadows, but he thinks she looks embarrassed. 

“She left early, while we were in the bathroom,” Clarke explains. “Clubs aren’t really her scene.”

Bellamy hums but says nothing. He’s not about to lecture her on her dating choices. He’s already got a sister and anyway, that isn’t really his style. Plus, she can’t be any worse than  _ The Knife _ . “I didn’t know you were dating anyone.” He means it to be an ice-breaker, letting her know she can talk about it if she wants, but once the words come out he realizes it sounds like he’s fishing about her love life. Which is less than ideal, obviously.

“Yeah, uh, it’s Lexa, actually. She plays Helena?”

Bellamy barks out a laugh without really meaning to, because he  _ definitely _ remembers Lexa, in a weirdly fond way. If he and Clarke didn’t get along at first, then he and Lexa were outright  _ enemies _ . As Helena Wayne, Dick’s pseudo-foster sister, they had way more scenes together than Bellamy and Clarke ever did. And while they never let their dislike for each other spill over onscreen, they were nothing but frigid glares and curt words once the tape stopped rolling.

It took Bellamy walking in on Lexa with her hand up some PA’s skirt in the dressing room, before immediately shrugging and walking back out, for Lexa to decide he maybe wasn’t Satan.

Unlike most of his old castmates, Bellamy didn’t actually lose contact with Lexa, and she still periodically texts him weird, morbid historical facts she thinks he might like. Most of them involve guillotines. 

“Sorry, I just never really figured she was your type.”

Clarke raises a brow, which is fair, considering he basically just admitted that he’s given at least some thought to what her type might be. “What do you think my type is?”

“Someone with facial expressions,” Octavia grumbles, and Bellamy laughs so hard he almost drops her.

“She’s just  _ shy _ ,” Clarke says, but the corners of her mouth are tugging upwards.

“Must be perfecting that micro-emotion technique,” Bellamy agrees sagely as he helps O into the backseat. Clarke shoves him and sits shotgun. 

“You wanna crash at my place?” Bellamy offers, when Clarke makes no move to offer directions, and starts fucking around on her phone. “O has three roommates and I’m not about to try wrestling her past them in the middle of the night.”

“They’re just  _ friendly _ you  _ asshole _ ,” Octavia says, and he pumps the brake, just a little, enough for him to hear the breath whoosh out of her lungs when she tips back suddenly. “ _ Asshole _ .”

Whatever, it’s funny. Clarke laughs--or, she gives a sort of dry huff that sounds like the skeleton of a laugh. He’s counting it.

“I have an early flight for some press conference actually,” she makes a face. “But thanks anyway.”

Bellamy shrugs because he’s not about to  _ force _ her, and takes the next three turns as directed, dropping her off outside some ritzy tall building on the west side of town, the kind with a  _ doorman _ . “Living large,” he teases, and she makes a face at him.

“Thanks for the ride, Bellamy.” Faster than he can blink, she leans over the console and presses her mouth to his cheek, the clay of her lipstick rubbing off against his stubble. It’s just the breath of a goodbye kiss and then she’s gone.

“O _ ooohhhhhh _ ,” Octavia chortles from the back. He pumps the brake again to shut her up.

Bellamy half-carries his sister up to his apartment and gets her bundled into his bed, complete with Advil and blue gatorade waiting for when she wakes up, before he finally collapses onto the couch. He means to send a text to Clarke, asking if she got in alright, but when he pulls out his phone, he finds she’s beaten him to it.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: U guys get home ok?

Me: Yeah, she’s snoring up a storm in my bed while I’m demoted to the couch like some commoner. 

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Poor baby

Me: I’m really torn up about it. Thanks for calling.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Thanks for picking up

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Goodnight Bellamy

Me: Night, Clarke.

He sets her contact name as :CROWN EMOJI: and tries to cram in as much sleep as he can before his alarm goes off in two hours.

 

If he’s being honest, Bellamy doesn’t actually think the weird middle of the night rescue thing with Clarke will actually go anywhere. She and his sister are work friends and got drunk together, and he just happened to take them home. Separately. Like a chauffeur, or something equally platonic. If anything, he thinks they  _ might _ become the sort-of-friends that he and Lexa are, where they’ll text sporadically throughout the year about nothing important before eventually falling out of contact the way most people do.

But he’s in hair and makeup the next day when Monroe, his dedicated and well-meaning if slightly over-invested assistant, walks up and wordlessly thrusts her phone into his face. 

He has to pull back a little to see the screen, and there must have been paparazzis following them last night, because he finds himself staring at a bunch of blurry photos of him, Clarke and Octavia outside the club.

“Huh,” he says, and Monroe lets out a noise that sounds like a scream being strangled by her own throat. 

“Everyone wants to know what you were doing with her,” she says, vaguely accusatory and a little hurt. Bellamy usually tells her, if he’s seeing someone.

“She’s my sister,” he says, purposefully obtuse, and now she looks like she wants to strangle  _ him _ . “We hang out sometimes. Sibling bonding, and shit.”

“And Clarke Griffin? Were you two also bonding?”

Bellamy shrugs. “We used to work together. Now she works with O. We’re friends, and she needed a ride home. That’s all that happened.”

Monroe is already texting furiously, probably sending out a mass email about how his love life is at DEFCON 4; nuclear war may not be imminent, but they should all be on standby, just in case. “I’m gonna issue a ‘no comment’ statement.”

“Shouldn’t you just say nothing, then?”

Monroe levels him with a thoroughly unimpressed look. What happened to the timid, just-out-of-community-college teenager that was so starstruck she couldn’t even call him by his name, stuttering out  _ Mr. Blake _ all the time? He wants that assistant back. “This is why  _ I’m _ the assistant, and you’re the actor,” she tells him, and then rushes off to solve a million social media problems that he probably won’t ever know about.

Bellamy doesn’t really  _ have _ to tell Clarke about it; they’re both in show business, so it’s not like this is new. He’s always hounded after he’s seen hanging out with a member of the opposite sex, and he’s sure it’s the same for her. But it’s kind of funny, and he thinks she’ll find it funny too.

Me: So apparently we’re dating.

:CROWN EMOJI: I expect flowers and wine if u want me 2 put out

Me: And they say romance is dead.

:CROWN EMOJI: I’m a romantic, blake

Me: Clearly. Dinner and a movie work for you?

:CROWN EMOJI: Only if the movie is gay porn

He snorts, getting a glare from one of the sound techs for his trouble, and Clarke must have googled their names to see what he’s talking about, because she sends him one of the grainiest photos. It shows them with their arms looped around Octavia, who’s pitching her head back to drunkenly yell at the stars. It looks like they’re trying to get rid of a dead body, and are just really, really bad at it.

:CROWN EMOJI: Carrying your drunk sis 2gether :winking emoji: hot

Me: Gossipqueen224 certainly seems to think so.

:CROWN EMOJI: I’ll see if lexa is into poly

Bellamy can picture the look of disgust on his old costar’s face so clearly, that he has to actually  _ leave the set _ because he can’t stop laughing.

After that, it becomes a  _ thing _ . When Bellamy wakes up, he responds to whatever texts Clarke sent in the middle of the night, because she has the sleep schedule of a cat. When he has a particularly funny line, he sends her a snapshot of the script. Clarke starts sending him a lot of pictures of his head photoshopped onto obscure animals, which he’s not really sure how she finds. She tells him about all of her weird little projects, because she apparently doesn’t understand the concept of  _ not _ working, and he gives her book recommendations. 

They don’t ever actually  _ see _ each other, for all that they technically live in the same city. Their schedules are both kind of crazy, with Clarke always flying off to Vancouver or New York to film perfume commercials or indie rom coms, while Bellamy starts working on his blockbuster and then has the press tour across Europe for a month.

But they don’t really need to see each other. Bellamy has never actually been this regular about communication in his  _ life _ , and it gets to the point where he texts Clarke more than he texts Octavia, Monroe or any of his costars--combined. 

Raven’s the first to notice, and only because Raven has the irritating habit of stealing his phone and uploading a bunch of passive aggressive playlists with cryptic titles like  _ I know you ate my bagel sandwich last Tuesday _ filled with songs like “Burn You Alive” by Army of the Pharaohs. 

So Bellamy isn’t really  _ surprised _ when he finds a new playlist in his music folder, titled  _ Nightwing & Power Girl Sitting In A Tree _ . When he clicks on it, the first song is “I’m Into You” by Jennifer Lopez. 

“Very clever,” he says, unamused, waving his phone at Raven when he finds her in the costume trailer. Raven is almost always in the dressing trailer, despite having the least amount of costume changes. He suspects she either uses it as an escape, or because she has a thing for Luna Waters, their costume designer. 

Raven used to be the kind of person who was always in the middle of the fray, like some kind of energy beam or bolt of lightning. Bellamy wasn’t convinced she actually ever  _ slept _ for the first few months they worked together. She was constantly moving, constantly getting everyone around her to move too. She set up hula hooping contests for the cast and crew. She used to teach amateur break dancing in between takes. She was adamant about doing her own stunt work. 

And then when she was on a road trip in Canada she rolled her car four times and tore her spine up so bad that she needs a leg brace to even  _ stand _ , let alone move anywhere. 

That was nearly a year ago. The writers and producers were supportive, quick to rewrite the season four scripts and bump up her transition from Barbara-Gordon-as-Batgirl to Barbara-Gordon-as-Oracle, making the change happen sooner than they were planning. But she’s only been back on set for two months now, and she got tired of the constant staring and well-meaning “Are you okay?”s from everyone, so she’s taken to seeking solace in the costume trailer. Bellamy gets it. Luna is basically one of those therapeutic green teas in the form of a person, and nobody really comes back here, more likely just to page her directly.

Raven shrugs from her seat, unperturbed. “I thought so.” The look that she gives him is calculated, and he really hopes she didn’t go  _ too _ far back into his text conversation with Clarke Griffin. The most recent messages are innocent enough, but a few days ago he got drunk with Miller and sent her a bunch of unnecessarily sappy shit about how glad he was that they’re friends now.

It wasn’t anything he didn’t mean, and she only moderately made fun of him, but Bellamy always instantly regrets opening up to people. 

Waking up to a pretty earnest voicemail from Clarke where she said she felt the same didn’t hurt, though.

“We’re just friends,” he says, and Raven doesn’t disagree with him.

“I believe you.”

“She’s got a girlfriend,” he adds.

“I’m aware.”

She’s also currently filming on-location in Budapest and almost as if on cue, his phone beeps with a message. It’s just a picture of her straddling some statue of a griffin, which she’s been doing all week. Apparently there are a lot of griffin statues in Budapest. 

Me: Does that qualify as incest?

:CROWN EMOJI: Our love won’t be denied, bell

He grins without really meaning to, and glances up to find Raven looking smug.

“We’re  _ friends _ .”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, but she looks even more smug now, and Bellamy doesn’t give a shit what she does or does not say. He has a younger sister; he knows what an  _ I knew it _ face looks like.

He points a finger at her, firm, like he’s reprimanding a puppy. “ _ Just friends _ ,” he says, emphatic.

Raven just smirks, like an asshole. “Whatever you say, compadre.” He knows she doesn’t mean for  _ compadre _ to sound sarcastic; she only said it because it rhymes. It just sounds sarcastic anyway.

Clarke sends him a picture of her kissing a griffin statue, next. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything, when he saves it and sets it as her icon image. It’s just a good photo.

The thing is, while Bellamy doesn’t like spilling his emotions to anyone else, he does actually have a pretty good handle on how he feels. He knows he likes Clarke a little bit more than everyone else in his life, barring Octavia. He knows that, given the chance, he would progress their friendship into something more. 

But that’s where the fantasy snags, isn’t it? Because he doesn’t have a chance, so he should really just stop considering it. She’s got a girlfriend, and even if she didn’t, they never actually  _ see _ each other. They’ve tried, a couple of times, but something always fell through and then they were never on the west coast at the same time, which is basically the universe hitting him over the head with a billboard that reads NOT GONNA HAPPEN in giant red letters. 

Bellamy isn’t even much of a relationship person, not really. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t  _ like _ relationships, he does, he’s just not very good at them. The last time he was seeing someone in any sort of monogamous capacity was Gina, because she was a regular guest star last season and it was easy to go to work with her every day and just go home together. But then the season finished and she went on to film some biopic in Florida, and they lost touch because, as mentioned, Bellamy is actually the worst and staying in contact with people that he doesn’t see on a daily basis. 

With the exception of Clarke, and while that seems to translate well enough into a long-distant friendship, he’s just not sure he’s interested in a long-distant relationship. They seem really hard.

His phone beeps from where it’s tucked snugly in the thigh pocket of his Nightwing suit, and he has to put that gymnastics training to good use so he can get to it. The suit may be a good look for him, but it’s definitely a case of aesthetics trumping practicality. 

This photo sees Clarke perched on the lap of the statue of a stern-looking old man. She’s captioned it  _ U in a past life _ and Bellamy sends her a selfie of him matching the statue’s irritated expression.

Me: Newest model.

:CROWN EMOJI: I’m a classics fan, sorry!!

They have to call Bellamy’s name three times, before he tears his eyes from his phone, so yeah. He’s basically fucked.

 

He doesn’t actually  _ see _ Clarke again until that season’s wrap after-party. The official DC wrap parties for  _ Nightwing _ and  _ Wayne Manor _ are usually docile affairs that involve a lot of smalltalk and light drinking, because no one wants to be the guy that gets blackout drunk and blabs to the paps camped outside, or worse, just strips right there in front of the cameras (Miller’s never gonna let him live that down, which is fair). But the  _ after _ -parties are always hosted by Jasper and Monty because they live in a beachside house far enough away from any probing neighbors that the cops probably won’t get called, and everyone can get sufficiently wasted to celebrate still having a job.

Monty and Jasper play Beast Boy and Tim Drake, respectively, and also see the most crossover between the two series, showing up pretty equally in both. As such, they also reign as the official party boys of DC television, since they make friends easily and know pretty much everyone, at least peripherally. The fans and media have dubbed them  _ The Boys Wonder. _ Plus they have a seemingly endless cache of weed, which they are very liberal with sharing.

Bellamy is talking with Jasper, who’s still wearing his green body paint for some unknown reason, when Clarke finds him, perching on the arm of his chair like she does it all the time.

She’s got a raspberry wine cooler in one hand, and laughs when he makes a face at it. “What, too girly?”

“Too  _ weak _ ,” he corrects, holding up his own cup. It’s bright blue, made up of about fifteen different kinds of liquors--two of which he’s pretty sure are outlawed in the states--and smells like the birth child of a swimming pool and lighter fluid. Monty made it in the kitchen, looking like a gleeful mad scientist, because Bellamy and Jasper are the only ones who ever let Monty mix their drinks anymore; everyone else has learned their lesson. Clarke takes a whiff and immediately gags.

“That smells like liver failure.”

“That’s the point,” Bellamy says, taking a healthy sip. “Die young, while I’m still pretty.”

She actually looks concerned, just for a moment, because even though her sense of humor is just as morbid as his, Clarke doesn’t know how to  _ not _ worry. Then her face settles into a smirk; tonight’s lipstick is plum-colored, and he still wants to mess it up. Just a little. “I think you missed the mark about five years back.”

“Ouch.”

Jasper has apparently decided to migrate elsewhere, leaving just Bellamy and Clarke in their little corner of the universe. She thumbs at the collar of his shirt with a grin. 

“You are aware that you live on the beach, right?” she teases.

“I live forty-five minutes from the beach,” Bellamy points out, looking down at the shirt himself. “It’s a joke between me and Octavia. Whenever we went to Redondo together, we’d get each other something from one of the tourist traps. Usually a shirt, since, you know, those are actually useful.”

Clarke eyes the flamingo-patterned shirt critically. “I’m not sure that’s how I would describe it.”

“Flamingoes are beautiful, Clarke.”

She snorts. “Sure.”

“They’re good birds, Clarke.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, just settles in a little more against him.

“Where’s Lexa?” he asks, partly to be polite, and partly because bringing up her girlfriend is a really good way to remind himself why he can’t just tug her in as close as he wants.

“Parties aren’t really her thing,” she says, and he hums in understanding. “What are your plans for the summer?”

Mostly his plans involve watching a lot of Netflix and never getting dressed, but Bellamy isn’t sure that’s the kind of mental image he wants to give her. It seems sad, or at least, sadder than his usual.

“Buying a lot of bright, floral-themed clothing,” he says. “Why?”

“I’m gonna be working on this webseries in Vancouver.”

“Cool.” She’s finished her own drink and reaches for his, which he gives over without a fight. “Congratulations.”

She still makes a face after each sip, but she keeps coming back for more. “They need a guy.”

Bellamy blinks at her and takes his cup back. “Okay.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, because  _ of course _ he’s making this difficult. “ _ You’re _ a guy.”

He grins a little, and she pokes him in the cheek, hard. “I’m aware.”

“I think you should take the part.”

“Based on what, exactly?” he asks, and it must be what she was waiting for, because she immediately launches into a list of reasons, counting them off on one hand.

“You’re in the right age range, you’re a great actor, you don’t have any other projects right now, they’re filming the whole thing in two months, we already know we work well together,” she stops and worries at her lip, forgetting about her lipstick. She gets some on her teeth. “And it would be fun, right? Working together again?”

Bellamy grins, because it’s not like he was gonna say  _ no _ , but it’s still nice to hear. “Yeah, it would. Send me the script.”

Clarke’s smile lights up her face like the fucking sun and it actually  _ hurts _ to look at her, so Bellamy’s kind of relieved when someone starts screaming, snatching their attention.

“Everything’s fine!” Monty calls out, right as Riley says “I’m on  _ fire _ !”

“Yeah, but not, like, a lot,” Jasper says.

“Time to make sure they don’t kill themselves,” Bellamy sighs, setting his cup down and knowing that he is absolutely not going to find it again. “We work with a bunch of animals.”

Clarke follows him out onto the deck, where all the commotion is, just in time to see Murphy shove Riley, whose right pant leg is still gently flaming, over the railing.

For a moment, Bellamy actually thinks his costar might have just committed murder.

Then there’s a splash, and they look down to find Riley spluttering in the pool. There’s a moment of silence, and then the crowd erupts into cheers.

Bellamy claps Murphy on the shoulder so hard that he spills his beer on his shoes. “Good job, Murphy. You’re a hero.”

“Yeah,” Murphy says, deadpan. “I’m a real saint.”

To be honest, Bellamy’s not totally convinced that Murphy even knew there was a pool down there.

 

Bellamy wakes up feeling like death crawled into his ear like a spider while he was sleeping and laid little death eggs in his brain. He’d apparently collapsed on one of the plastic lawn chairs behind Jasper and Monty’s condo, while Clarke passed out half in his lap and half draped over a second lawn chair tugged up beside his. 

“Hey,” he brushes the chlorine-crusted hair from her face, biting back a smile when she makes a face, waking up. He clears his throat, voice hoarse from sleep and too much alcohol. “Clarke.”

She groans, rolling her face into his thigh in protest, and Bellamy goes from gently waking her up, to practically shoving her upright. She really shouldn’t be this close to his crotch, right now. 

“Clarke, wake up.”

She squints her eyes at him, still sluggish and disoriented. “Wha--?”

“We slept at Monty and Jasper’s,” he says, patient, waiting for her brain to catch up. She makes another face, and yawns. He really wants to kiss her, but shuts it down. “Breakfast?”

She nods, following him upstairs to collect his keys and phone, which he finds in a half-empty bowl of skittles on the coffee table. Clarke steals a hoody that is definitely not hers from the couch, tugging it on over her candy-striped bikini top, and they shuffle out to his car.

They go to some retro-themed diner in Clarke’s neighborhood, with specialty milkshakes named after famous Hollywood stars.

There aren’t any named after them, but there is one named after Clarke’s mom, who made her mark as a famous Scream Queen in a slew of classic slasher films in the seventies before she gracefully moved onto a life of philanthropy. The Abby Griffin tastes like strawberry shortcake. Bellamy orders the Dwayne Johnson; butternut toffee. 

They get a bunch of grease-heavy breakfast food, stealing bits of bacon and pecan waffles off each other’s plates, chatting about nothing. Clarke shows him some new app she’s obsessed with, that turns your name into anagrams (they both agree the best one is Bleakly Amble) and she kisses his cheek when they part at the sidewalk.

Bellamy spends the rest of the morning sleeping his hangover off at home before he has to meet Octavia for lunch at the new raw vegan place her sort-of boyfriend introduced to her. Bellamy actually kind of wants to meet the guy, in a masochistic sort of way. Anyone that can get his sister to give up red meat must be something special.

He’s poking at something made out of kale when Octavia drops into the chair across from him and immediately says “So are you dating Clarke Griffin or what?”

Bellamy frowns at her. “Or what. Why?”

Octavia fishes around in her tote bag for a moment before retrieving her enormous phone, sliding it over for him to read.

It’s another online gossip zine, because his sister is a weirdo who has google alerts set up on his name so that whenever anyone shit talks him on Reddit she can immediately virtually rip their throat out. 

The pictures are from that morning, of him and Clarke going into the diner, and a few of them grinning over their food, and then one that’s taken from the side during the goodbye kiss, so it looks a lot less platonic than it was. It’s a lot like the morning after that night at the club, except less blurry, and a whole lot more damning. They look like they woke up together and got breakfast after a late night, which, to be fair, is exactly what happened. He wishes pap photos came with more context.

“We passed out at Monty and Jasper’s after the party,” he explains, reaching for his own phone, because it’s weird that Monroe hasn’t called him about the pictures yet. She should be having a panic attack right about now.

Apparently last-night Bellamy had the foresight to turn his phone on silent, because when he unlocks his screen, the whole thing lights up like a Christmas show, with no less than  _ twelve _ missed calls from Monroe before she just started shooting rapid fire text messages like a digital AK-47, keeping time with her pulse.

The last few just say  _ DEFCON ONE _ over and over, with pictures of a Kermit puppet that somebody set on fire.

There’s also a solitary text from Lexa, which Bellamy almost doesn’t open but eventually does because he’s not a  _ coward _ . 

:SWORD EMOJI: Thank you for not letting Clarke get alcohol poisoning. The average guillotine can cut through a neck in .005 seconds.

Me: No problem

Octavia goes up to order some chocolate cake that is, in Bellamy’s opinion, neither chocolate nor cake, so he takes the time to call Monroe, just to make sure she isn’t dead from the stress.

She picks up after half a ring.

“Are you trying to kill me? You must be trying to kill me.”

“Imagine what would happen if the world knew I was pan,” Bellamy says wryly. “I’d never be able to be seen anywhere with anyone.”

“Should I remind you that you and Clarke Griffin have a  _ history _ ?”

“We sort of worked together for like five months. I’d hardly call that  _ history _ . I have more history with her girlfriend, but no one ever thinks we’re dating.”

“That’s because Lexa Spatha is one of the most high-profile celebrity lesbians ever, and is very vocal about how much she dislikes men. She’s like an angry, savage Ellen Degeneres.” 

Bellamy frowns. “Do people know that they’re dating?”

“Considering they’ve been photographed multiple times sucking face outside of fuddy duddy country clubs? Yes.”

“Then why are they so sure me and Clarke are a thing?” he asks, feeling irritated. “Just because I’m a guy and she’s a girl? Because she’s bisexual?”

“The world sucks,” Monroe agrees. “Please don’t go on a Twitter rant about biphobia. It’ll just fan the flames.” She knows him well, considering he was about to break his four-month streak of no tweeting to do just that. Bellamy  _ hates _ social media, but if he’s gonna use it, he’d rather use it to defend his friends.

“Nothing is going on between me and Clarke,” he says, dutifully, making a face at his sister when she comes back to their table.

“When has anyone ever cared about reality when it comes to celebrity scandals?” Monroe asks, voice near hysterics. “It’s all about the speculation, Bellamy, and people are speculating that you and Clarke are bumping uglies on the regular.”

Monroe is from a tiny mining town in the mountains of West Virginia, and has a surplus of ridiculous euphemisms that Bellamy wishes he could unhear the moment she says them.

“Well, work your weird assistant magic or whatever and convince them that nothing is being bumped, ever.”

“What do you think I’m  _ doing _ ?” Monroe asks, and she actually sounds a little offended. “I’ve already gotten thirteen sites to update their articles with  _ sources say that Blake and Griffin are just good friends, and nothing more _ .” 

Bellamy’s actually impressed. “Already? It’s only been four hours.”

“I’m like the Santa Claus of PR,” Monroe agrees, and hangs up on him, for emphasis.

Octavia has finished her not-chocolate-not-cake and is pretending to flip through some organic gardening magazine. “So you aren’t dating Clarke Griffin.”

“I’m not dating Clarke Griffin,” he confirms.

“But you wanna be.” Her eyes are narrowed, which means she’s acutely paying attention to his reaction, which puts Bellamy in a difficult situation. He could deny it, but she would know he’s lying immediately, because his sister is like a shark when it comes to his emotions. Or he could admit that yeah, he’s into Clarke Griffin in a decidedly not-just-friends way, but nothing is going to happen.

“Yeah,” he says, tipping his chair back with a sigh. “But she’s got a girlfriend, which is cool. I like Lexa, for the most part. I’m not gonna risk making it weird.”

Octavia nods, like she’d suspected as much. “Crushes suck,” she says, all solidarity, and he smiles, only a little self-pitying.

“They really do.”

 

Clarke emails the script to Bellamy that night, with the subject line “Clarke & Bellamy Reunion Show.” He likes it. Mostly. It’s got a kind of  _ Game of Thrones _ vibe, but for teeangers, like a Kidsbop version of the Middle Ages. His character is the typical hot-asshole-turned-lovable-ally, which he can work with, while Clarke’s is the idealistic princess who wants to escape her arranged marriage and actually help people. Lexa’s character is the real star, a Viking-esque warrior queen torn between leading her people and following her heart. It’s a little cheesy and predictable, but there are some major character deaths that he isn’t expecting even within the first three episodes, which are the only scripts they have so far.

It’s a webseries, which means they’re going to speed-film it and then release all the episodes at once on some streaming site. Bellamy’s never actually worked on a webseries before, but Clarke has, and she answers all his questions, walking him through it. It’s Lexa’s pet project, one she’s been working on for a couple of years to get the funding and the cast worked out, and Clarke is obviously proud of her, gushing about how much time she’s put into the series. He sends a message to his agent, telling him to get the legal shit worked out, and then books a flight to Vancouver.

Clarke makes him send her a copy of his flight itinerary so they can fly over together.

:CROWN EMOJI: I refuse 2 fly coach

Me: Never have you earned the nickname Princess more than this moment.

:CROWN EMOJI: :face sticking out tongue emoji: wtvr

Me: Why do you hate vowels?

:CROWN EMOJI: Why do u hate adequate leg room

Me: I don’t but we can’t all be millionaires, Princess.

:CROWN EMOJI: I’m not a  _ millionaire _

Me: Sorry I can’t hear you over the amount of $$ in your bank account.

:CROWN EMOJI: Wtvr i booked us both in 1st class UR WELCOME

Me: Clarke, I didn’t ask for that.

Me: I can’t afford first class.

:CROWN EMOJI: just pay for the hotel minibar n we’ll call it even :princess emoji:

Bellamy doesn’t actually realize  _ why _ Clarke was so adamant about them flying first class until she’s a nervous wreck during take off, and then he feels like a fucking  _ idiot _ .

“Is this about your dad?”

Jake Griffin was, if not as glamorous as his Hollywood starlet wife, then at least as prolific, one of the foremost names in aviation. Half the airports in America have whole wings named after him. And if people didn’t know him for his work on aeronautics, then they definitely knew about how he  _ died _ , one of the most infamous plane crashes in the twenty-first century. His plane went down somewhere in the Pacific, and was never recovered. Bellamy was only twenty years old at the time, in the middle of his celebrity bad boy phase, and most of that year is a blur but he definitely remembers the death of Jake Griffin. It was all over the news for months.

Clarke nods, worrying her lip so much that he’s worried she’ll split the skin, and he takes her hand  __ without really thinking about it. She grips his fingers so tight they go numb, but he doesn’t even care. He’ll let her cut off his circulation the whole flight, if she needs to.

“It’s just--take off and landing are the most dangerous parts in a flight, you know?” She offers an apologetic smile, and he squeezes her hand once, a wordless reassurance. She doesn’t need to feel bad about this. “I know a lot of pointless statistics about plane crashes.”

“Yeah, you’re a nerd,” he agrees.

“Shut up, you’re a nerd too.” She goes quiet for a minute, and he thinks they might just spend the next three and a half hours in silence, each holding their breath until the whole thing is over and they’re safe on the ground. But then she says “I’m sorry I switched your ticket, I just...I didn’t want to be alone for this, and tight spaces make it worse.”

“I get it,” he says, because he does. He couldn’t get behind the wheel of a car for a year after his mom died, and didn’t get his license until he was nineteen. But it’s basically impossible to live in America without driving, and he had O to look after. “It’s fine, Clarke. Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you. If you want me to recite every line from  _ Mean Girls _ to distract you, I can do that.”

She grins. “ _ Every  _ line?”

“Octavia watched it religiously throughout high school. I have that shit memorized. It’s practically engraved on my brain.” 

“Prove it,” she says, and he does, using a ridiculous high pitched voice for Regina George that has Clarke choking on laughter so she doesn’t even notice that they’re in the air for the first twenty minutes.

She falls asleep after the honey roasted peanuts and warm towels are passed out, because first class seats are actually  _ comfortable _ , and she drools a little on his shoulder but he doesn’t really mind.

Clarke wakes up for the descent, and he distracts her again by reciting the last scenes from  _ Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest _ , which was Octavia’s second favorite movie in high school.

“I can’t believe you know them  _ word for word _ ,” Clarke wipes the tears from her eyes as Bellamy fetches their bags from the upper compartment.

“I’m a man of many talents.”

They’re staying at the same hotel, because the production company is paying for it. Bellamy’s room is one floor above Clarke’s, and it might be June but Vancouver is fucking  _ cold _ , okay? He’s still running on LA weather. Clarke laughs when he tugs an old sweater from his suitcase and pulls it on.

“Wanna go over the scripts one last time, and take advantage of the minibar?” he offers, only faltering when Clarke starts to fidget.

“I was actually going to see Lexa--”

She looks a little sorry about it, so Bellamy waves her off. “Right, no, that makes sense. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It shouldn’t bother him. Bellamy knows Clarke has a girlfriend, has always known she has a girlfriend, and he respects that. Plus he  _ likes _ Lexa, as well as he can like anyone who gets where they are through influential connections rather than actual work. 

So yeah, definitely doesn’t bother him. Besides, it’s not like he can’t just drink by himself, as depressing as that sounds.

Bellamy shoots his sister a text to let her know he got to town alright, and sends Monroe an email too, before settling in with a little bottle of gin and the script for the first episode, ready to take notes. He doesn’t care if it’s just an indie Canadian webseries; he takes his job seriously.

There are a few historical inaccuracies that he points out, and the fake language for the “flame keepers” is a little too on the nose for his taste, but he’s broadly hopeful. He’s excited to wear chainmail, and swing a sword.

If he’s being honest, Bellamy is mostly just nervous about Clarke. Specifically him and Clarke, and the fear that they might no longer work well together. Back on  _ Wayne Manor _ they only had a handful of scenes, most of which just fed off of the hostile energy between them at the time. Their characters weren’t supposed to like each other, which worked out well for everyone involved. But now they’ll be playing “tentative allies turned friends with a possibility for more,” and that’s uncharted territory for them.

But of course Clarke was worried about the same thing and has her  _ own _ script with notes scrawled all over the pages in purple gel pen, when she fetches Bellamy the next morning. She pushes a yogurt cup at him, along with a plastic spoon, which he suspects she stole from the dining room downstairs.

“It’s not stealing if it’s  _ free _ ,” she says, rolling her eyes, like she could hear his thoughts exactly. “Come on, time to go die of the Bubonic Plague.”

“You mean  _ Boubanik Playge _ ,” he grimaces. They really need to do something about that language.

“Exactly,” Clarke agrees, slipping her arm through the crease in his as they wait for the elevator. He eats his yogurt on the way.

As it turns out, Bellamy’s fears about working with Clarke are completely unfounded. If anything, they work even  _ better _ now. It turns out actually knowing someone makes it easier to anticipate what they’ll do next, and how best to react to it. By the end of the first day, he’s wondering why he was even nervous. She clearly prepared for the role because, as stated, Clarke also gives a shit about her job. She never had the raw natural talent that her mother did, or Raven, or even Bellamy, which meant she always had to work a little harder at it, but she definitely got there.

The  _ real _ issue turns out to be Lexa.

Things were awkward on the first day, and Bellamy chalks it up to the fact that they haven’t actually shared the same  _ space _ in two years or so. They still see each other at awards parties and DC conventions, but they don’t really run in the same crowds, and Lexa always leaves really early, before they even get to say hi.

But now suddenly they’re costars again, and as one of the executive producers Lexa  _ might _ also be his boss, sort of. And Bellamy is starting to realize that she’s actually not a good actress, like at all.

She’s okay. Mediocre. He’d assumed her standoffishness and blank facial expressions had been a part of Helena’s character. She has daddy issues, and is an assassin, so it stands to reason. But apparently no, that’s just Lexa.

Bellamy tries to ignore it, really he does. He’s worked with worse actors. But it stings, knowing that she’s only gotten as far as she has because she was born white, pretty and rich, the latest in a long line of Spathas born and raised in the limelight of Hollywood. Meanwhile Bellamy had to scrape together bit parts in medicinal commercials while waiting tables until he was “discovered.” Miller actually went to  _ school _ and got a degree in acting, but still spent two years doing local off-off-off Broadway theater before he got the role as Connor Kent. Even Clarke, who had almost all the same stepping stones as Lexa, tries really hard to get better, taking more and more difficult roles and studying workshops in her off-time. But Lexa treats acting less like a job and more like a birthright. 

And to make things even weirder, Bellamy never seems to be able to get Clarke alone. Normally, he wouldn’t care. When they aren’t filming, they’re going over next episode’s scripts, or getting dinner with the cast. He doesn’t actively  _ try _ to get alone-time with Clarke, which is why it takes him a while to realize that whenever he does, Lexa’s there. 

At first he thinks he’s just paranoid, but then when he tests the theory, inviting Clarke over to watch  _ Law and Order _ reruns and try whatever weird shit is left in his minibar, Lexa claims she has a headache, and takes Clarke home with her. She avoids Bellamy’s eyes on the way out, and that’s what seals it. Lexa doesn’t trust them to be alone together, and it sucks. He knew they weren’t  _ close _ or anything, but he’d at least thought they were friends.

The show itself doesn’t help. He still likes it for the most part, likes his character and the overall themes of the show, the idea that no one is truly good or evil, and the weird religion they’ve written in. But it’s also sort of self-aggrandizing, for all that it’s basically a  _ Game of Thrones _ knockoff. Plus his costar Roan seems to be allergic to shirts for whatever reason, which makes it hard to concentrate, and also he’s just generally weird. The other day, he accidentally burned himself on one of the set lights, and then he just-- _ put his hand on the light and held it _ , like he wanted to reassure them all that he’s sufficiently badass. Which was totally stupid; he couldn’t hold his sword properly for the rest of the day.

And the fake language is really, really stupid.

“I can’t even pronounce this,” he grumbles, squinting at the page.

Clarke bites back a grin. She finds his complaining hilarious, but since her girlfriend helped develop the fake language in question, it’s not like she can  _ admit _ she agrees it’s dumb. “Good, you’re not supposed to. Sabre can’t speak it, remember?”

That was another thing; his character’s name is  _ Sabre _ , seriously. 

“It literally sounds like toddlers trying to speak English, Clarke.”

“Maybe that’s the aesthetic they’re going for,” she says loftily, even though they both know it’s not true. He gives her a look. 

“They named their bible after Doritos, Clarke.”

“That’s because the Doritos slogan is  _ for the bold _ , and that’s their prayer,” she defends, a little half-heartedly. When he doesn’t look moved, she adds “I thought it was clever.”

“You did not,” he scoffs, and she nudges his leg with her foot, from where she’s perched on the edge of his mattress while he’s sprawled out on the carpeted hotel room floor. With a sudden jolt, Bellamy realizes this is the first time they’ve been alone since they first got to Vancouver.

“Ten bucks says that whoever came up with this shit was either high or wasted.”

Clarke pretends to think it over, but they both know she can never turn down a bet. “Deal.”

They have two more days to film what’s left of the series finale, and then they have to fly back to LA for the DC press junket, while Lexa and the other producers stay behind and finish editing the final product. 

“When do you have to go to the big leagues?” Clarke asks, studying the label of some Canadian liquor, all in French.

“Uh, I’m with you guys for the first week, then I leave for the DCEU tour.” 

She flashes him a grin that makes him flush. He knows it’s a big deal, but it’s still weird for him to talk about. He’s in a  _ batman movie _ . “Are you gonna dump the rest of us for Ben Affleck?” she teases, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Nah,” he leans back with a lazy grin. “Cavill’s more my type. I’m gonna become a total trophy husband and forget all about batfam.” 

Clarke throws her bottle cap at him. “Jok of.”

“What does that even  _ mean _ ?”

“It’s flame keeper for  _ fuck off _ .”

 

Bellamy is in the middle of a makeout session, which he’s hopeful to turn into more than just a makeout session, on Jackson’s couch when his phone starts ringing.

It’s  _ Girl Power _ , which is his ringtone for Clarke, and he pulls away with an apologetic smile. “It might be an emergency.”

“I get it,” Jackson says, waving him off, and Bellamy takes the call out in the hallway.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Have you--has Monroe called you at all?” Clarke asks, and there’s something funny about her voice. It sounds like she’s been crying.

“No, should she have? Clarke, what’s wrong? Do you need me to come pick you up?”

She gives a watery laugh. “That was  _ one time _ . I’m fine, honestly, just--Lexa left the show.”

Bellamy frowns. “What? When?”

“Today. Or, we found out today. It was just announced that she’s the lead in some new zombie movie. It’s based on a video game, set to be a franchise blah blah blah. Sinclair tried to call her but just keeps getting her legal team. She’s paying to get out of her contract early. They’re gonna have to kill off Helena. Kane’s having a fit.”

Sinclair is the director for  _ Wayne Manor _ , and Marcus Kane plays Bruce. Bellamy can imagine how they must be reacting pretty clearly. “I bet. Fuck.” She laughs, but it’s weak. “Fuck, Clarke, I’m so sorry. Have you talked to her?”

“We broke up.”

Bellamy feels his heart stutter in his chest, because she sounds so  _ sad _ and he fucking hates that she’s hurting right now, and he can’t even hold her. “Clarke--”

“I’m okay, I just--she didn’t even tell me, you know? She didn’t even get why I was so upset.”

He’s going to delete Lexa Spatha from his contacts, and then from his life, immediately. Make it clear that he’s decidedly Team Clarke in the break-up. “Fuck her.”

“I don’t think she meant to hurt me.”

“Fuck her anyway.” Her laugh is a little stronger this time. “Seriously Clarke, this sucks and I’m sorry. You deserve better.” 

She pauses for a moment. “Thanks, Bellamy.”

“You want me to come over? We can binge drink and braid each other’s hair.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I already promised Raven she could be my crying shoulder for the night.” 

Clarke and Raven have one of the strangest friendships Bellamy has ever witnessed, because they didn’t actually meet on the show. They met when Raven won some weird scientific talent competition that landed her a spot on the sitcom Clarke worked on as a teenager, and they found out Clarke’s colead was dating both of them on the downlow. Then they dumped him and their subsequent relationship is less  _ friendship _ and more like that bond between two cousins who never really talk to each other but when they do get together it’s like they were never apart.

“Let me know if you need a third wheel,” he tells her, and then goes back to what he was doing. Namely: Jackson.

Bellamy and Jackson started hooking up sometime in the third season of  _ Wayne Manor _ , whenever they both happened to be in town and felt like it. It’s nice, simple, and it’s been going on for so long that they’ve both gotten pretty complacent about getting caught. They work together, and everyone knows they’re friends off-set. People normally don’t bat an eye when they go home together, to sleep off a night out at the bar.

But normally there isn’t photographic evidence that shows them making out in Jackson’s doorway before Bellamy leaves the next morning, hickey ripe and damning on the skin of his neck.

He’s getting brunch with Clarke when his phone starts exploding, text after text from Monroe and Sinclair and even one from Zack Snyder. 

“Did Ben Affleck  _ die _ ?” Clarke asks, frowning when her phone starts going off too. “It’s Harper.” Harper is Clarke’s assistant, who worked as her gym trainer for a while before she realized she could just tell Clarke what to do in every aspect of her life. She’s basically Monroe, if Monroe wasn’t on Adderall. 

He can tell the moment Harper tells her, because she sucks in a sharp breath and looks at him with wide eyes. She looks like she wishes she could go back in time and suckerpunch the pap that was camped outside Jackson’s building that moment, but she can’t, and Bellamy can’t either, which leaves them where they are: hunched over the table in a diner, staring at an article on TMZ.

“Of course they think I’m gay,” he says, when he can speak again. “They’re already saying all my ex girlfriends were beards.”

“ _ Bellamy _ ,” Clarke says, but she doesn’t seem to know what else to say. It’s not like there’s some sort of dialogue for this situation. It sucks, and there’s nothing they can do about it.

“I guess it might be too much to hope they know what pansexual means, right?” he jokes, because it’s either make bad jokes about it until the whole thing blows over, or punch a wall, and he doesn’t feel like dealing with a broken wrist  _ and _ getting yanked out of the closet, all on the same day.

“They’re assholes,” Clarke says.

“At least they got my best angle,” he forces a grin, but he knows she can tell.

“All your angles are the best angle.”

“Thanks,” he clears his throat and glances around, suddenly paranoid. Like half the people in the room are on their phones, and he knows it’s pretty narcissistic to think they might be reading about  _ him _ , but he can’t help the worry. “I should call Jackson.” It’s not like he’s the only one in the photos, after all.

Clarke nods, and she still looks like she wants to have the people who took the photos, wrote the article, and run the website all formally executed. “I’ll watch your shit.”

Jackson assures Bellamy that he’s fine, having planned to come out publically soon anyway.

“This is the most publicity I’ve gotten in months,” he says. “I’ve already gotten an offer for some side role on the next season of  _ American Horror Story _ .” 

Bellamy grins. At least something good has come out of this shit show.

Monroe calls him next.

“I’m going to sue them into the twenty-fourth century,” she declares, like she’s suiting up for battle.

“You can’t hunt down everyone that posts a picture of me,” he says, a little amused in spite of himself.

“Watch me.” Her voice goes low, sincere. “You okay?”

“Don’t start being nice to me. I might get used to it.”

“I’m always nice,” Monroe argues. “You’re just impossible.”

“Remember when you were impressed by my star-like presence?” Bellamy asks, dry. “What happened to that?”

“I realized you’re actually just a nerd with good genetics,” Monroe says, and hangs up.

Bellamy lets Clarke drive him to her place with no argument, while he sulks in the passenger seat and answers calls, fielding them where he can.

Once they’re inside, she steals his phone without a word and takes over, all  _ I’m sorry, but Mr. Blake can’t come to the phone right now _ , like a goddamned secretary. Bellamy flops down on the couch and tries--and fails--to watch Netflix.

Octavia doesn’t even bother calling before she bursts in through the door like a member of the Spanish Inquisition. She’s still in her workout gear, which means she must have just come from the gym.

“I’m gonna kill them,” she says, glaring like she wants to hurt the universe, and everything the universe has ever loved.

Bellamy blinks back at her. “How’d you know I was here?” 

Octavia rolls her eyes, swatting at his legs so he makes room for her to sit. “It’s almost like I know you’re pretty much always at Clarke’s.”

On cue, Clarke calls out from the kitchen. “Hi, Octavia!”

“Hi, Clarke!” O calls back, and turns back on him. “Raven crashed their servers and is deleting the pictures as we speak.”

He can’t help but smile at that. They care, and it’s nice, if a little futile. “It won’t matter. People have downloaded them and uploaded them already. They’re everywhere.”

“Then we’ll get those down too,” she says, pragmatic. “Raven’s really good with computers, Bell.”

His mouth twitches, remembering the jump scares she put in his phone for April Fool’s. “I’m aware. So you guys are all defending my honor, huh?”

Clarke chooses that moment to reappear, massive bowl of popcorn in hand. She nudges him so he sits up just enough for her to sit down pressed against him, her and Octavia bookending him on each side. “We’ve got your back, Bell.”

 

Their first convention is that weekend, and Bellamy can’t say he’s excited.

He usually loves cons, loves meeting fans and spending time with the castmates he normally doesn’t see that often. There’s always a ton of fanart and he  _ loves _ fanart. But he’s dreading the constant staring and pestering questions.  _ How long have you known you were gay? Were you afraid to come out? Are you and Eric Jackson in a relationship?  _

It’s not like people haven’t been supportive. Yeah, there have been some homophobic comments, stuff like  _ what a waste _ and the general “fag” stuff. And yeah, they keep calling him gay even though he had Monroe proofread the lengthy post he made on Instagram, about how he identifies as pansexual. But there’s been an outpour of encouragement from his DCU costars and fans. Ezra Miller made a nice tweet about LGBT solidarity in the superhero community. He isn’t lacking a support system.

But it’s still nerve-wracking, waiting with the others for the Rolling Stones interviewer to show up.

Bellamy’s first DC convention was the summer after  _ Wayne Manor _ premiered, with only the original members of the cast, who had been dubbed  _ batfam _ in their first interview. The current lineup is a little different of course; some old people have left, some new people have been added. But they’re all batfam, and it’s nice to be together.

Bellamy’s sitting between Kane and Clarke, catching up with Marcus since they haven’t seen each other in a while. Marcus is the star on  _ Wayne Manor _ , which means he doesn’t show up on  _ Nightwing _ as much as the others do. And he’d kind of taken Bellamy under his wing when he first started, showing him the ropes. 

Marcus regards Bellamy fondly. They haven’t spoken since Bellamy’s forced coming out, but he doubts Marcus will care much. Marcus doesn’t strike him as that kind of guy. “Son.”

“Dad,” Bellamy says, coolly, and then the interviewer shows up.

It’s pretty much a disaster from the very beginning. First, she asks about Lexa, directing the question to Clarke while Bellamy and Raven flank her protectively.

“We all wish her the best with her future endeavors,” Clarke says, all practiced politeness and brittle smile that makes her look like a shark.

Things don’t get better from there. She talks about the  _ unorthodox _ decision to cast every Robin as Asian, and she asks about Raven’s accident, and about Bellamy’s relationship with Jackson.

They answer everything, with Marcus having to smooth over a few responses that Bellamy blurts without thinking, slipping into his Bruce Wayne charm easily.

They’re almost finished when she turns back to Bellamy and Clarke, eyeing them critically. “You two have been pretty close these days.”

Jasper lets out a low whistle and Monty pokes him in the side, making him squawk. 

“We are close,” Clarke says, earnest. “We’re all close.”

“We’re family,” Bellamy adds, and Raven proudly displays her shirt front, where BATFAM rests in bold letters over the yellow bat symbol. 

“Nice save,” Miller tells him, once the interviewer leaves. 

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I dunno what you mean. I’m gay now, remember?”

Miller hits him on the head with a rolled up movie poster, which he might have deserved.

There are a few more, less awful interviews after that, and then photo ops and some panels that Bellamy isn’t dreading too much. 

To his surprise, a lot of queer kids are waiting in line to get selfies with him, and more than a few of them express how much it means, to have someone like him representing them. It’s a little overwhelming, and he actually has to take a break halfway through, to go cry.

“Is this what it’s like for you?” he asks, lounging behind Clarke’s table, because his is closed for the day, and she’s still signing pictures. 

“It was crazier at first,” she admits, handing off the signed headshot with a smile. It’s what he calls her  _ celebrity smile _ , and it’s blinding. “I had all these bi girls coming up to me, or messaging me, telling me how they look up to me. I actually kind of freaked out a little, sure that I’d be a terrible role model or something.” Clarke first came out when she was still a teenager, so she’s been openly bisexual in the public eye for some time now. For all that she’s younger than him, she does have more experience in this, and he’s glad he has her to help him through it.

But he’s flying to Tokyo for the start of the DCEU tour, and he isn’t going to see her for at least two weeks, which sucks. He’s gotten used to spending time with her, between filming  _ Flame Keepers _ and the convention. He’s been spoiled.

Raven makes a playlist for his flight, titled  _ Bat-Boy Takes Japan _ . The first song is the original theme from Godzilla.

Bellamy actually loves long flights, and spends the time reading and watching the free movies the airline offers. He’s expecting to spend most of his time cooped up in the hotel, but his first few days are actually really busy, filled with press conferences and publicity meetups and playing tourist with Ezra and Jason. It’s fun, and he buys his weight in some weird sour green candy that he never wants to run out of. 

On his third night in Tokyo, someone leaks nude photos of Clarke Griffin.

Bellamy isn’t like Raven or Monroe, and he can’t get the photos taken down, or hire a mercenary to kill whoever leaked them in the first place. But he can take to twitter, and make a long, enraged rant about it. He calls her right after, and she answers quicker than he expects, like she was waiting up for it.

“Hey.” She’s definitely been crying, and Bellamy wonders if this was what she felt like, when the internet tore into his personal life. Like he wishes he could switch places with her, so she wouldn’t have to hurt.

“So are we just like, gonna keep taking turns having scandals every week?”

“Unless you have some dick pics saved in the cloud somewhere, I’m not sure you can trump this,” she admits.

“I could have dick pics.”

“Do  _ not _ leak your own nudes just to take the pressure off of me,” she says, only half-kidding. He’s only half-kidding too. He really would do it, if he thought it might work, but he knows better.

“That can be Plan B,” he agrees, and she goes quiet for a long moment.

“Did you see them?”

“No,” he says, no hesitation. He’d seen the headlines, but nothing more, and he refused to scroll down to look. It was gross, and he wanted to kill everyone involved all over again. 

“Good.” She sounds impossibly relieved, and he really wishes he was just--with her. They’re better in person, when he can offer silent support. “Monroe called me about your rage tweeting by the way. You have to delete that.”

“They deserve it,” he says, petulant.

“Bellamy.”

He sighs heavily, just to let her know he’s put out about it, but he does go back to delete the posts. It won’t matter; they’ve probably been screenshotted a hundred times by now, but it’s the thought that counts. “What do you need?”

“Nothing.” It rings false though, and she adds “Just--this. You. Just keep talking.”

It would be easier to keep talking if she didn’t make his chest ache so fucking much, but he powers through it. “Ezra and I bonded over how hot Henry is,” he offers, and she makes a noise to continue. “Apparently Jason Momoa collects rocks.”

“What, like, quartz and stuff?”

“Nope. Just regular, ugly old rocks. Like off the ground. He has a whole box of them.”

Clarke snorts. “Weird. Sinclair found someone to play Stephanie.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. Her name’s Gaia. She seems nice.”

They talk and talk and Bellamy doesn’t notice he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up in the morning, phone dead and screen stuck to his cheek. When he plugs it in to charge, he sees a text from Clarke.

:CROWN EMOJI: Thanks, bell :heart emoji: i miss u

 

Clarke is filming in New York by the time Bellamy gets home, and starts work on the new season of  _ Nightwing _ .

He’s reading in bed when she calls him. It’s late, but Clarke’s sleep schedule is always weird, and anyway he’s still awake so it’s not like it matters.

“It’s like one AM there, go to bed,” he grumbles, and she laughs.

“Sorry, grandma. Did I wake you up?”

“Nah, I’m just watching the Wheel of Fortune.”

“I’ve actually never seen that.”

“What? How have you never seen Wheel of Fortune? It’s one of those quintessential rerun shows, like Law & Order, or Jeopardy.” Bellamy almost asks if she’s ever stepped foot in a laundromat, since that was where he always saw it playing, but this is Clarke Griffin; of course she’s never been to a laundromat. 

“I’ve seen Jeopardy,” Clarke chirps. “Suck it, Trebek.” 

“You and everyone else in western civilization,” Bellamy teases. “What else did you watch?”

“Mostly porn.”

Bellamy’s brain short circuits for a moment, but he shakes it off. This is  _ Clarke _ . She’s just kidding. Probably. “Mostly gay, I’m assuming.”

She hums, voice a little off. “I’m an equal opportunist, Bellamy.” He must stay quiet for too long because then she says “What are you wearing?”

Bellamy snorts. “Seriously?”

“What? I have an artist's mind and a curious nature, Bellamy. I need you to paint me a picture.”

Okay, so the night’s going a little weird, but she started it. “I’m in bed, so my glasses and a pair of boxers. Checker Print,” he adds, just to be thorough.

Clarke makes a noise, soft and low in her throat, and just like that he’s turned on. “Stylish.”

He clears his throat, as if that isn’t obvious, and keeps his voice light just in case. He can always say he was joking, if it makes her uncomfortable, and they can pretend it never happened. “Yeah, that’s me. What about you? Flamingo shirt?”

She laughs, but her voice is still a little deeper than usual. “Close, but no cigar. Um, actually--you know that Pearl Jam shirt of yours?”

Bellamy’s eyes narrow. He  _ does _ know that shirt. “You mean the one that’s been missing from my closet for like two months?”

“I  _ might _ have stolen it. Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.

“Clarke Griffin, you’re a thief.”

“Yep,” she agrees. “So--Pearl Jam shirt, and some cotton boyshorts. With polka dots.”

Even though he hasn’t actually seen her in close to a month, Bellamy can so easily picture her like that. Laying in bed over the covers, hair fanning out against the pillow, wearing his shirt and her polka dotted underwear.

In his mental picture, she might have a hand between her legs, just touching, light and sweet. 

“Hot,” he says, only half-joking, but he thinks she knows.

“Yeah?” Her voice is sounding strained again, and the thought  _ holy shit she’s actually touching herself _ strikes through his mind like lightning.

“Yeah, Clarke, you’re-- _ god _ .”

She giggles, rough in her throat, and even that’s hot as hell. “You’re gorgeous,” she says, managing to make it sound dirty. “If I was there, I’d put my mouth all over you. Just push you down and suck you off.”

“ _ Jesus fuck _ ,” Bellamy hisses, reaching down to stroke himself in time with her voice. Clarke Griffin is getting off on the thought of giving him a blowjob, and it is the best moment of his life.

“I’d go nice and slow,” she tells him, breathing harsh in between each word. “Make it last. Savor you. Then I’d ride your mouth till I came. Make you taste me.” 

She whines, and he thinks he might pass out from how good it sounds. He has never been so into phone sex. 

“I think about it all the time,” Clarke says, and Bellamy groans at the thought of that. How many times had she been sitting beside him on the couch, or at a restaurant, thinking about fucking him? “Think about fucking you, filling me up,  _ Bellamy _ \--”

He loses track of how many times he says her name, over and over as he comes, and he hears her voice break when she follows. Then it’s just breathing, and if he hadn’t just blacked out for a second, the sound of her little pants might be enough to get him hard all over again.

For half a moment, Bellamy worries that things might be awkward now, with no idea how to move forward from what just happened.

But then Clarke says, only a little out of breath, “So tell me what stupid thing Cage did this week,” and that’s that.

 

Just like how texting became a  _ thing _ after that night he picked her and Octavia up, the phone sex becomes a  _ thing _ as well. Which isn't to say the regular texting and calling stops. The morning after, Bellamy wakes to a photo Clarke has taken of a Nightwing action figure held up to her face, like she's kissing his cheek. 

:CROWN EMOJI: Found u in a ny walmart

Me: The resemblance is uncanny.

:CROWN EMOJI: Unfortunately this version doesn't kiss back

Me: I'll make it up to you when you get home.

:CROWN EMOJI: :winking kiss emoji:

So this is their new normal. Bellamy rants about how much he fucking hates working with Cage Wallace, and Clarke runs her mouth off about all the things she wants to so to him--or wants  _ him _ to do to  _ her _ \--while he jerks himself off in the coat closet of his dressing room like a fucking teenager.

“He's calling it “method acting” but really he's  just an asshole. It's like he's trying to give us the Jared Leto experience, you know? Maybe  _ I  _ should try some method acting and actually punch him in the face.”

Bellamy had assumed, upon first meeting Cage Wallace, that he was probably a normal guy underneath the clown makeup. The Joker is a weird, skeevy role, which was why he got a weird, skeevy vibe from the guy who would be playing him.

But now they're halfway through the season and he can confidently say that Cage Fucking Wallace is officially just a weird, skeevy asshole. The casting department really has outdone themselves. 

Clarke hums sympathetically. “Where are you?”

Bellamy shivers for no reason at all. “Dressing room, why?”

“Does the door lock?”

It doesn't, but he's not about to let that stop him. “No but there's a closet.” He ducks inside and waits, listening to her breathing quicken. She's three hours ahead of them, and already done filming for the day. He's still in his Nightwing suit, which makes palming himself difficult but not impossible.

“I want you to do exactly as I say,” Clarke says, voice low. “Do you understand me?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, and gets himself off in record time. 

“Fuck,” he stands on shaky knees, catching his breath. He needs to find something to clean himself off with; Luna is a pacifist, but he's not convinced she won't kill him if she knows what he just did in her suit. “Fuck, babe.”

Clarke laughs, still languid from her own orgasm. “I like it when you curse,” she says around a yawn.

“It's not even six there yet,” he teases. 

“I woke up at three AM,” she defends. “And orgasms make me sleepy.”

He files the information away for later, as his phone beeps. They need him back on set. “I fucking miss you,” he says, just to be a dick, and she laughs. 

“Go aggressively fake punch Cage Wallace.”

He stops by a Walmart after work, scouring the toy aisle until he finds a Power Girl action figure, and sends a photo to Clarke.

 

The first time Clarke sends him nudes, he’s in the middle of a training session with Lincoln--whom he has reassured Octavia at least fifteen times he likes  _ yes, really _ \--and snorts gatorade out through his nose so fast it fucking  _ burns _ .

She follows the first one up with three more, all different angles like she couldn’t decide which was better, so she just decided to send them all. He isn’t gonna complain; he can’t pick a favorite, either.

:CROWN EMOJI: This is where u validate me and tell me how hot i am

Me: Can’t. Speechless.

:CROWN EMOJI: That’ll do for now

Bellamy’s still crazy paranoid about her nude leak a few months back, so he decides to suck it up and get Raven to backup his phone’s security, just in case.

He doesn’t actually tell her why all of a sudden he actually cares about the constant threat of viruses, which she has spent the better part of their friendship lecturing him about. But Raven’s a snooper. She snoops. He’s not sure if she’s physically able to  _ not _ snoop, digging through other people’s hard drives like a dumpster diver, searching for cans of peas.

Yes, in this analogy, the cans of peas are naked photos of Clarke Griffin. It’s not a perfect metaphor.

If Raven stumbles upon the  _ extensive _ sexting history between Bellamy and Clarke, she gives no sign, just handing the phone back by the end of the day, and telling him to download an app every once in a while.

“The only games on your phone are Angry Birds and some historical trivia thing,” she makes a face. “It’s sad.”

Of course, when Bellamy goes into his music folder, he finds a new playlist titled  _ A Modern Phone-mance _ that includes songs like “Kiss Me Through the Phone” and “Call Me Maybe,” so it’s safe to say she knows. Probably. Or maybe is just a really good guesser.

Clarke thinks it’s hilarious.

“Of course she knows,” she tells him. “It’s  _ Raven _ . She’s like the closest thing to Skynet there is.”

“She isn’t a robot, Clarke.”

“How do you know for sure?” she muses. “Have you ever looked inside her skin?”

He hasn’t, but he also doesn’t make a point of looking inside people’s skins. 

“This is why you should come back to LA. To protect me from the robot uprising,” he says, because he still doesn’t know how to say the other stuff. How much he misses her when she’s gone, like something’s just a little bit off with the world until she’s back, where she belongs. With him. How much better they are when they’re together, sharing the same zip code. How he thinks he might be in love with her.

She laughs. “We can be the group of ragtag survivors after the apocalypse. You, me, and the rest of batfam. Raven will betray her fellow robots, because she loves us. You and I will keep the others safe. Kane will try to charm our android overlords into letting us live.”

Okay, so he’s definitely in love with her. “Will it work?”

“No. Robots can’t be charmed, Bellamy. They’re impervious to Bruce Wayne Voice. So Kane dies, obviously, and then we have to avenge him.”

“Obviously,” he agrees, grinning up at the ceiling. 

“You know Lexa wanted me to leave  _ Wayne Manor _ with her?” she says suddenly, and Bellamy frowns, sitting up because it sounds like a sitting-up sort of conversation.

“I thought you said she didn’t mention it to you.”

“She didn’t, not before she left. I called her after I found out, and then she brought it up. That’s why we fought, and broke up.”

“Was she aware that people can date even when they aren’t working together?” If she notices his question is a little pointed, she doesn’t say.

He woke up to a text from Lexa a few days ago. She's started dating some Parisian model, and they seem happy enough. The text was a link to some National Geographic article about a royal tomb recently discovered in modern-day Turkey. It felt like an olive branch. 

“I broke up with her,” Clarke clarifies, and Bellamy tries not to care. It’s not like he thought he was a rebound--enough time had passed between her breakup with Lexa and their...whatever it is that they’re doing. But it was still always a thought in the back of his head. “She kept talking about how television isn’t  _ real _ art, not like film, and how I can do so much better and I just--I  _ like _ television. I like my show. I like playing Karen, you know?”

Bellamy does know. Dick Grayson may have been his big break into show business, but this role was far from just a job to him. Bellamy may not be a gymnast, or a vigilante, but some orphan kid wanting to spend his life protecting others and taking care of his loved ones? Yeah, Bellamy can relate to that. And he knows Clarke feels the same about Karen Starr, knows how much it means to her, that she gets to play a powerful woman little girls can look up to. She can complain about the mandatory exercise regimens for hours but at the end of the day when Clarke talks about her job, her eyes fucking  _ sparkle _ . Anyone can see it.

“Yeah,” he says. “I get it.”

Clarke hums. “You always do.”

 

As luck would have it, two days before Clarke is set to get back to LA, Bellamy has to film on-location in Madrid for a week.

He knows she’s every bit as disappointed as he is, even if she tries to sound chipper over the phone when he calls.

“Aren’t you supposed to be an actress?” he teases. “You suck at sounding fake-happy.”

“Only with you,” Clarke says, and it actually makes him feel a little bit better. “Okay, so, a week and a half until we’re in the same place again. You know what that means?”

Bellamy feels his mouth go dry. “We can go back to carpooling?”

“No more just  _ talking _ .”

And as much as Bellamy is looking forward to being able to make every single one of Clarke’s very detailed fantasies come true, he’s actually really nervous, because--what if it isn’t good in person? He might actually cry.

But even more than that, there’s the thought of actually  _ dating _ Clarke Griffin, which is daunting. It’s been easy enough to just keep things casual, while they’re long-distance. Friends with phone sex benefits. But when Clarke’s next to him again, tangible and close, he knows that won’t be enough. He wants to--well, he wants to do a lot of things, but he wants to hold her hand while they walk and sit a little closer than normal and put his arm around her in a movie theater and wake up knowing what she looks like in his bed. And it’s been easy to just assume that she wants all that stuff too, because they’re so often on the same wavelength, but what if this time is different? 

Raven isn’t going to Madrid because she has her own story arc this season, but Monty and Miller are, which Bellamy is profoundly thankful for. Otherwise it would just be him, Murphy and Cage Fucking Wallace, and he might not have survived the trip.

Monty and Miller are already in Spain, having flown in from New York, and Bellamy finds them waiting for him at the airport with a sign that just has the bat symbol drawn in black marker.

“Cute,” he says, trying for dry but failing miserably because he’s  _ missed _ them, the dorks.

“We thought so,” Monty chirps, hugging him, and then moving so Miller can say hi too.

“Grayson,” he smirks, bumping fists.

Bellamy nods. “Kent.”

Monty makes a face at both of them. He doesn’t  _ get _ why their friendship isn’t very vocal, or sunshiny. Monty loves friendship, and would be glad to give a list of all the people he’s friends with, along with their many talents and accomplishments. 

It’s late summer in Spain, which means filming is one long hot, sticky week. Bellamy may have lived in Socal all his life, but LA and Madrid seem to experience humidity differently. In LA, the air is like a towel that’s been dipped in warm water and laid over his shoulders. The air in Madrid is also like a warm and wet towel, except it’s over his face, smothering him.

Monty and Miller are always fun to film with, which helps, and Clarke texts him pretty regularly, sending pictures of all the things about LA that she’s missed. Most of them are, admittedly, the beach, but apparently New York also doesn’t have In-N-Out. 

She sends a photo of his apartment, having used the spare key he gave her forever ago so she could water his succulents while he was in Tokyo. He tries not to think about her in his home, in his bed, making everything smell like the vanilla bodywash she uses.

It doesn’t work, and so he goes to Miller.

“Clarke and I might be hooking up.”

Miller doesn’t look up from the issue of People Magazine in his lap, and the only sign he’s even heard Bellamy is a single raised brow. “Define  _ might be hooking up _ .”

Bellamy makes a face, because this is where the English language has failed him. Hooking up is such a broad and objectively useless term. “I don’t know--we’ve had phone sex? A lot. Does that count as hooking up? Nothing’s ever happened in person, as of yet.”

Miller finally heaves a sigh, to let Bellamy know how long-suffering his is, and puts the magazine aside. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m going to see her in two days and I’m freaking out.”

Miller nods, rolls up the magazine, and swats him with it, like a bad dog. 

“That is the opposite of helpful,” Bellamy tells him, even though it’s a lie. He’s already starting to calm down.

But his blood pressure spikes up again when Miller says “Relax, it’s probably just casual anyway. Clarke’s kind of a fuckboy.” 

Bellamy stares at him. “What? No she isn’t.” Clarke is a serial monogamist, between Finn Collins and then Lexa Spatha, and a few others in between. 

Miller snorts. “She definitely is. She’s probably hooked up with more people than you. She’s just more quiet about it.”

Bellamy knows it shouldn’t bother him, not really. So he thought there was more than there is, so what? It happens. It’s not like Clarke led him on or anything. She’s still his best friend. He can be casual.

Monty finds him on their last day in the hotel, while Bellamy’s packing and trying not to panic over seeing Clarke in just a few hours.

“If you came to talk me into trying whatever weird mini bar mixed drink you’ve made, I’m kicking you out. I have a fight scene tomorrow, I can’t feel half-dead.”

Monty doesn’t even smile, instead walking over to sit in the middle of the bed, legs crossed, looking pensive. “I wasn’t sure if I should break bro code and tell you, but you’re my bro too, and bro code clearly states that if I think it’ll greatly improve both bros’ lives and happiness, I can break. For the greater good.”

Bellamy blinks at him. “Are you high?”

“Not yet,” Monty says, looking fidgety, which doesn’t help his case at all. “Plus, I think Clarke sort of  _ wants _ me to tell you? And I talked to Jasper, who talked to Raven, and--”

“Slow down,” Bellamy holds up a hand. “Clarke wants you to tell me what?”

“That she likes you.”

He waits for Monty to finish, but apparently that’s it. “I’m aware.”

“No, she  _ likes _ you. Like-likes.”

Bellamy schools his face, which is probably a bigger tell than if he just let his jaw drop. “Are you thirteen?”

Monty looks deeply unimpressed with him. “Look, this is a big deal for her okay? Clarke doesn’t date friends. She doesn’t know how to do that. Plus she thought you didn’t date at all, until Raven said--”

“Wait, why did she think that?” Bellamy frowns, feeling weirdly defensive seeing as he’s just found out that  _ Clarke wants to date him _ . “I’ve dated.”

“Dude, they called you Hollywood’s Bruce Wayne for like, two years.”

Okay, so Bellamy may have gone a little overboard with the partying and the playboy-smarm when he first got into show business. But it was his first time getting to do any of that. He’d never been able to go to parties or fuck around when he was growing up, too worried about taking care of O. He realized he didn’t miss out on much, since binge-drinking and pregnancy scares are fucking  _ awful _ , and faded from the scene pretty quickly. But he was still in the midst of that phase when Clarke met him, so he can maybe see why it might have left an impression.

“Anyway,” Monty says pointedly. “Yeah. She’s into you. So, you should definitely work on that.”

“Thanks.” The air between them grows awkward. “Jasper and Raven know too?”

“Bro Code only says that I can’t tell you,” Monty says primly. “But they’d pretty much figured it out.”

Bellamy scrubs a hand over his face, knocking his glasses crooked. “Does everyone know?”

Monty has to think about it, which means yes. “Define ‘everyone.’”

“Batfam. And the crew.”

“I don’t know if Murphy knows and just doesn’t care, or if he’s oblivious, but other than that? Yeah. Everyone knows.” Monty gives him a hug that’s only half-pity, and then disappears, probably to hook up with Miller. Bellamy doesn’t know if they’re actually  _ dating _ yet, but they’ve only used Miller’s room since they’ve been here. 

Their cast is kind of a disaster in the romance department.

From the nightstand, his phone beeps with a text from Clarke.

:CROWN EMOJI: 9 more hours!!! :party popper emoji:

Me: You’ve started a countdown?

:CROWN EMOJI: I started a countdown the first day

It’s just after one AM when Bellamy gets to his apartment, because time zones are weird, and he has to be on set in three and a half hours, because the universe hates him.

He’s really planning to just pass out and hope his alarm wakes him, but when he reaches his bed, he finds it already occupied.

Clarke is asleep, curled up on the covers, wearing his Pearl Jam shirt and a pair of polka dotted boy shorts that feel familiar, even though he’s technically never seen them before.

She stirs when he slips in beside her, blinking at him sleepily.

“Hey, goldilocks,” he grins, and she scrunches her nose up at the name.

“I wanted to surprise you,” she says, and he kisses her. He doesn’t think about how this is their first kiss, or how she tastes like his toothpaste and smells like home. He just thinks about how much he’s wanted to kiss her these past few months, and now he finally  _ can _ .

Clarke hums into his mouth just like he knew she would, because she really can’t be quiet, and kisses him back.

“Consider me surprised. Go back to sleep.”

“Was gonna ravish you,” she mumbles, but her eyes are already slipping closed, and he smothers a laugh in the pillow, pulling her close.

She fits against him perfectly.

“There’s always morning sex,” he promises, pressing a kiss to her hair.

 

They don’t get to have morning sex, because Bellamy wakes up late and has to rush through dressing before racing off to set. Clarke’s adorably grumpy about it, but he kisses her until she goes all soft and loose again, promising to make it up to her.

He considers just calling in, because  _ Clarke Griffin is in his bed right now _ , but he’d be pissed if Cage Fucking Wallace did it, so he sucks it up and decides to be responsible. 

“You smell like a cupcake,” Raven says knowingly, and he tugs her hair. She doesn’t get to be smug. If anyone gets to be smug, it’s him, and Clarke, and maybe Monty.

They have a bunch of kids on the set today, because Nightwing saves a school bus from the Joker, which means Bellamy gets to hang out with a bunch of seven and eight year olds, which is awesome. They all want to play with his Nightwing gadgets, and try on his mask, and ask about Batman and Batgirl, and a few even mention Power Girl which makes him flush but he gets through it.

He’s talking to one little girl who wants to be an acrobat  _ just like you! _ when Clarke finds him.

He doesn’t know how long she stands there, watching, before the little girl notices and squeals. 

“Power Girl!”

Bellamy looks up to find her standing a few feet away, grinning. She isn’t in costume, but Power Girl doesn’t wear a mask. 

“Hey,” Clarke smiles back at her, and touches a hand to Bellamy’s arm. “I actually need to talk to Dick about some superhero business for a second, is that okay?”

The girl nods, because obviously she isn’t gonna stand in the way of whatever world-saving business they need to talk about, and Bellamy nods for a PA to come over, and supervise. 

Clarke tugs him off to his dressing room, shutting the door behind them.

“You could have said Nightwing, or Bellamy,” he says.

Clarke tosses a fast food bag onto the vanity. “I know. I just like calling you Dick.”

“You brought me lunch?” he grins, but then she’s sliding up on the vanity too, looking infinitely more inviting than some tacos from a food truck.

“Thought you might be hungry,” she agrees, and wets her lips, looking him up and down before smirking. “This suit really works for you.”

“I know,” he says, reaching for the band of her leggings, slow enough for her to stop him if she wants.

Clarke slides her hips towards him, tugging his mouth down to hers. He eats her out on the vanity, and then she fumbles with the buckles of his suit for a few minutes before she gets her hand on him.

They make a mess of his suit, and she laughs as he searches for baby wipes before Luna really does kill him.

 

Bellamy really does have a plan. He’s going to pick up Clarke after work, and take her out to a nice dinner, and confess his love for her and then fuck her into next morning. He makes an itinerary on his phone, in between takes.

But then it’s five o’clock, and Jasper announces “YOM KIPPUR AFTER-PARTY” over the loudspeaker.

“You could have just sent a mass text,” he points out, once Jasper has been chased from the sound box.

“I did that too.” On cue, Bellamy’s phone beeps.

Every year, Jasper holds a party to celebrate the end of his fast, which means they all gather at his and Monty’s beach house and get high, gorge themselves on bad food, and wake up with a lot of weird pictures in their camera rolls. Last year, Miller gave a soliloquy from the roof, and Murphy sang karaoke in surprisingly perfect Mandarin. 

Bellamy finds Clarke waiting for him in the parking lot. “We don’t have to go.”

She snorts, already bringing up Monty’s address on the GPS, even though she knows how to get there. She just likes having the GPS as a failsafe. “Yeah, right. You’ll spend all night worrying that they’re going to set the house on fire, or get arrested. We might as well go and enjoy ourselves, so you can mother them in person.”

“I don’t  _ mother _ them,” Bellamy grumbles, but she’s right, so they drive over.

He does make sure that everyone has all the food and drinks they want, before they light up. But that’s just good planning.

Jasper steps outside halfway through, and Bellamy follows, just to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like fall asleep on the hood of his neighbor’s car. Jasper  _ said _ it was only one time, but Bellamy doesn’t know if he trusts him to make good judgment calls.

He finds him peeing off the deck, holding his middle finger up at no one. 

“What are you doing?”

Jasper looks over at him lazily, but doesn’t drop his hand. “The paps can’t use any pictures of you flicking them off,” he says, and Bellamy is grudgingly impressed. He’s always wondered how the Boys Wonder got away with almost never being on TMZ. 

“Thanks for the tip,” he says, and Jasper winks. 

In the end, nobody dies, and while there is a  _ mild _ fire, it gets put out pretty quickly.

Ilian promises to buy Jasper a new karaoke machine.

Octavia kind of apologizes for punching Murphy in the face, but it rings false, since she can’t remember doing it.

The sun is rising when Bellamy and Clarke leave, catching a ride with Lincoln because he’s straight-edge and nice enough to drive the rest of them home.

He does have to drop them off a block from Bellamy’s building, because of construction, but Bellamy waves off his apology. The walk will be nice.

He takes Clarke’s hand once they’re out of the car, and she squeezes once, encouraging. It’s really all he needs.

Bellamy could wait until they’re in the privacy of his apartment, but that would mean more  _ waiting _ , and honestly he’s done that long enough. 

He does put his middle finger up first, though. He can’t see any cameras, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

Clarke looks amused by it. “Who are you mad at?”

“Fucking paparazzis,” he says, but before she can turn to look, he adds “So, I’m in love with you.”

Clarke’s mouth falls open, snaps shut, opens again. “My nephew thinks Batman is my boyfriend.”

Bellamy blinks at her, because--this isn’t really how he thought the conversation would go. “Isn’t Kane married?”

She smiles, bright and happy, and  _ that’s _ what he was waiting for. “I kept trying to tell him my boyfriend is Nightwing, like the cheap knock-off Batman, but--”

He could probably also let her finish making fun of him before he kisses her, but that would involve  _ not kissing her _ , and he’s done with that too. 

Clarke kisses him back until they’re both grinning too much to kiss at all. “You’re still flipping them off?”

“That way they can’t use the pictures.”

Clarke flips them off too, for good measure, and then drags him inside.

They’re both half-asleep, naked and hazy post-orgasm, when Bellamy’s phone begins to ring.

“I Just Had Sex” blasts through the room, making Clarke groan, still a little hoarse, shoving the phone at him so he can make it stop.

:BIRD EMOJI: blinks back at him. He really should have known.

“How did you change my ringtone remotely?” 

“Good evening to you too,” Raven purrs. “How was your afternoon? Delightful?”

“You got lucky,” Bellamy grumbles.

“Not as lucky as you, apparently.” She’s still cackling when he hangs up on her.

“What was that,” Clarke asks, letting him tug her back against him. She’s all languid and floppy from sex, and he loves it. Loves her, loves having her here, breathing her in.

“Raven and her Skynet brain.”

She laughs, rolling over in his arms so she can kiss him. “My mom wants you to come over for dinner,” she says, playing with his fingers. “Wells, my step-brother wants to meet you too.”

Bellamy grins. “How many people did you tell that you wanted to date me?”

“A few,” she says, completely unrepentant. “I knew one of them would tell you eventually.”

“Sneaky.” He kisses her wrist. “You know you could have just told me yourself, and cut out the middlemen completely.”

Clarke smiles, so fucking happy, and his chest still kind of aches but in a good way. He’s not sure it’ll ever stop. “I love you too.”

“Cool,” he says, and she pokes him. “So, dinner and a movie. What was it that you wanted? Gay porn?”

“ _ Assvengers _ or  _ Womb Raider _ ,” she confirms. “Sounds perfect.”


End file.
